Chapter Text
There was something soothing, Daenerys had found, about the line where the sea met the sky, the view afforded from her council chamber one that seemed the best suited for calming her ever-frazzled nerves.
It had been five days since she had taken her tumble on the far end of the island, five days full of the most piercing grief she’d ever experienced, which was truly remarkable. Her losses, ‘til now, had been great and agonizing, but she could not shake the forlorn mood that had fallen over her since she’d found herself ripped away from what she was now classifying as a sweet, indulgent fantasy, borne of the trauma of her injury, nothing more.
And yet…
Tucked up the sleeve of her coat, always with her, was a rolled scrap of parchment, upon which she’d documented every single aspect of that lovely hallucination that she could remember. She knew she ought to squirrel it away somewhere safer, hide it from view, leave it behind so she might stop dwelling on these imaginary losses, but she could not.
It had become a talisman, of sorts, something that gave her comfort, just the scrape of it against her skin when she moved her arm as she walked.
She would be mortified, of course, if it were discovered. She was half-terrified it would slip free, and be found by another, her deepest longings read aloud. But for now, it eased the walk from her chambers to whatever task lay ahead, and so she kept it. “Your Grace?”
Daenerys turned from the wide, carved windows in her council chamber, to find Tyrion lingering, watching her with marked curiosity.
Quirking a brow, she did not answer, merely waited. Her Hand came closer, his fingers trailing down the Riverlands on the painted table as he approached. “Are you certain you are well?”
“I’m faring well, Tyrion.” She managed a tight smile, coming to stand at the head of the table, her eyes travelling over the surface rather than meeting the scrutiny in his. “A few lingering headaches, that’s all.”
“Hmmm.” Tyrion took another drink, then plucked a carved piece from the table, turning it over in his hands. When she peeked up, however, he was still staring at her. “As you say. Perhaps there is something else that troubles you?”
Dany smoothed her suddenly damp palms down the front of her coat, and kissed her teeth. “I think we shall all rest easier once we receive word from Casterly Rock, that your plan has succeeded.” It was enough to shift his focus, and there was a measure of truth in it; Missandei had been beside herself with worry over Grey Worm, and she reminded herself to ask her dear friend just what, precisely, had occurred between them.
Tyrion affected a confident air, and tucked away his wineskin, clasping his hands behind his pace and beginning to pace. “Yes, a victory is just what we need right now. And I have every confidence that we will prevail.” He kept moving, rounding the table, stopping by the depiction of the Northern Kingdom and plucking the wolf from the surface. His eyes met hers, and she froze. “How are things with our openly-rebellious friend? Have relations,” he paused, smirking, “thawed, perhaps, now that you have given him access to the mines?”
She wondered, at the keen tone of his voice, what it was he was truly asking beneath the rather mundane question. In truth, she had been avoiding Jon Snow, these past few days, at least as much as she could. The daytime hours were no issue; he was busy down in the mines, and she had seen several carts of the dragonglass he’d been so desperate for, so it seemed his search had been successful.
It was harder once the sun had departed, for they had taken to dining in the main hall, all of Dragonstone’s occupants, and though she tried desperately not to look at him, there were several times at every meal that she couldn’t quite resist. One night, in particular, he’d been seated beside her, had asked in his low, rumbling voice if her wound pained it, had inquired with a gentleness that had broken her heart anew.
When she’d told him she was well, and not to worry, that she had survived far worse, he had frowned fiercely, as though such a notion pained him, and it had taken all her strength not to kiss him then and there.
She had resisted the urge, and made cordial, cool conversation with him as necessary, but by the time she’d returned to her chambers she had thrown herself onto her bed and wept. She was tired of this, tired of weeping, of missing a life that hadn’t even existed, had not been hers to begin with.
Daenerys nodded, her voice tight and controlled. “It is my understanding that his undertaking has proven successful, so I would assume that he has thawed, somewhat, towards the notion of bending the knee. If that’s what you meant, Lord Hand?” She licked her dry lips and slowly moved near the hearth, where a pitcher of wine and several goblets sat, awaiting use. She closed her eyes as she took a sip, letting the heat from the flames warm her. She felt so cold, now, the emptiness she had experienced that first night back persistent and unwilling to flee completely.
She heard Tyrion sigh at her back, turned to find him now studying the map before him, still turning that wolf figure in his hand. “Perhaps you might check his progress yourself. If you are to win him to our cause, bring the North into the fold, you’re going to have to do more than cool looks and terse conversation, I fear.”
Dany narrowed her eyes, and sipped at her wine, both hating and delighting in the flare of desire that lit when she considered seeking him out and being in his company.
She remained quiet for several moments, but finally, she relented, knowing there was wisdom in her Hand’s words, even if she was not quite sure she trusted she could maintain her composure in the sullen, handsome King’s company.
“I will consider it,” she said, and nodded, dismissing him from the room. “I shall alert you if there is any progress. And you will notify me the moment we receive word from the Unsullied.”
“Of course,” Tyrion said smoothly, his eyes lighting with triumph, and with a dip of his head he was gone.
She drank down the rest of her wine, and steeled her spine, and set off to find out exactly what the King in the North was up to, in those caverns under her Keep. Against her wrist, as she walked, she felt that scrap of paper pressed tight, and willed herself to stay calm and keep her more erstwhile urges under control.
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The salty tang of the ocean air was sharp, today, and she walked amiably enough with Missandei, down the endless stairs that would take them to the shore, in search of the elusive Jon Snow.
At her side, Missandei worried her gloved hands together. “Has there been any word?”
She knew what plagued her friend, though she had not yet pressed as to the extent of this devotion that seemed to have developed between her most trusted companion and the general of her Unsullied armies. She supposed there must be some limits to the physicality that could exist between them, but a surge of heat flashed through her, accompanied by the memory of Jon Snow’s dark hair spread against her thighs, his mouth working her relentlessly, perfectly.
She shook herself, and cleared her throat, chiding herself that such thoughts were most unwise when she was in search of the very man who had become the subject of such vivid, lurid fantasies. And until she could be convinced otherwise, that was all they were, and all they must stay.
“He will come back to you.”
There was a deep and abiding worry in Missandei’s golden eyes. “He’d better,” she said vehemently, and it was uttered with such conviction that Dany found she couldn’t help but push a bit, inquire further.
“What happened?” She raised a brow at Missandei’s suddenly shy expression, the secret smile that lit her face so beautifully.
“Many things.”
Now both brows raised, comprehension painting a vivid picture of what must have occurred, and she fought back a laugh. “Many things?”
If she were inclined to believe that the things she had dreamt, the things that could not possibly be true, then she would not find this suprising in the least. They had seemed very much together, Missandei and Grey Worm, in that strange, wonderful imagining she had experienced. The logistics of such a union bore puzzling out, at the very least, and perhaps over a few goblets of wine Missandei might be willing to provide a full and scandalous accounting.
The look of knowing that crossed Missandei’s face as she smiled more widely in return was almost enough to make Dany set aside this search for the King and instead find a quiet corner that they might settle in, so she might press for more salacious information.
But then he was there, Jon Snow, directly in their path, as though he had been placed there purposefully.
She swallowed, hard, the sight of him arresting. It had been, she supposed, even before, but now she found she had to blink, as though to clear her vision, when she laid eyes on him once more. He looked so young, she thought, so comely. And yet, this man was unsure, where the Jon she had imagined had been confident, secure in himself, in who he was.
There was another thought that would be unwise to dwell on. That particular morsel of information had been almost too unbelievable for her own heart to accept. What had possessed her to imagine him to be some long-hidden son of her brother’s? There were several reasons she could summon; Her own longing not to be the last of her House, to bear this burden alone. Perhaps the connection he bore to the woman she believed her brother had loved, his own aunt, Lyanna.
Yes, that had to be it, she thought, staring down at him before exchanging another long, meaningful look with the woman beside her.
“Your Grace?”
Missandei’s eyes were amused, urging her towards the Northman, and her lips twitched, even as she ordered her Dothraki guard to stay.
She thought he might say more, explain where he was taking her, but he simply nodded, his dark eyes lingering a bit longer on her than they needed, she fancied, as he began to walk.
The trio finally arrived at the enormous mouth of the cave, no doubt where he had been toiling since she had granted permission, and she felt a shiver of fear, as her mind whispered that other things had happened in this cave, terrible things.
Mara , her mind whispered. The girl’s name was Mara.
She had to stop this. She had to focus on what was before her, now. And before her stood Jon Snow, torch in hand, his eyes beseeching her to follow him as he turned, walking, ready to lead her into the darkness that lay further in.
“Wait here,” she urged Missandei. Davos stoody nearby, and he stepped forward, then, in the last patch of sunlight that lay on the dirt, before the shadows of the cave began, and nodded to them both.
“I’ll wait with her,” he said in the gruff way she remembered. She could see him, as well, older, his beard turned snowy white, smiling down at the children she did not have.
With a harsh shake of herself, she gave him a smile, and took Missandei’s hand, squeezing gently, assuredly, before she took her leave.
“I’ll be back shortly,” she said, and let go, stepping forward as bravely as she could to find Jon Snow waiting for her, watching her progress intently. When she reached him, she fought back the impulse to lay her hand in the crook of his arm, choosing instead to wave a hand towards the darkness ahead. “Lead the way,” she chirped, as pleasantly as she could manage, and desperately pushed away the urge to touch him, to see if it would soothe the phantom bruises on her heart, ones she had inflicted upon herself with such silly fantasy.
Just a dream , she chanted inside her head, her mind fully convinced that this was the truth of things.
Her heart, however, had always been a traitorous, wild thing, all too often unwilling to listen to reason.
Not a dream, no, not at all.
She closed her eyes, briefly, bidding her heart to silence itself, and stepped into the dark.
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“Here it is,” Jon Snow proclaimed, the King in the North striding ahead, gesturing about in all directions. “All we’ll ever need.”
This was possibly the most unwise decision she’d ever made.
The dragonglass caves were forbidding and terribly beautiful in the flickering light of the braziers he lit, refracting and reflecting that orange glow onto every sharp corner of the vast cavern.
It stole her breath away, truly, but even more devastating was the sight of HIM, standing there, torch in hand, the light playing on his face as he watched her with inscrutable eyes. This was a fresh, terrible agony, she thought, as she forced herself to take in the view of the walls and craggy ceiling of obsidian above her head. To look upon his face for too long was to stumble back into a sweet madness, where he was hers, where she knew him in every way a woman might know a man.
And when he looked upon her like he was now, an odd mixture of reverence and gratefulness and want, it was almost impossible to resist the dark temptation that called to her. She shook herself, hoping the lingering shadows hid her expression well enough that her face did not betray her.
“There’s something else I want to show you, Your Grace” he said, lowly, in a voice that seemed familiar to her, though it could not be. That rough burr was one that tickled down her spine, a sound that made her breath come a bit faster, made her hands tingle with want to touch him, to feel each word uttered not into the open air, but against her skin.
She had to stop this.
She straightened, and nodded, taking the torch he offered and steeling herself as she saw that he intended for her to head down a narrow crevice in the rock, swallowing hard at the close quarters they would no doubt be in. With a steadying inhalation, she walked, the impalpable sense of him just behind her enough to spur her onward.
The orange glow lit the way ahead as she carefully stepped along the rocky path, only the sound of their breath and booted heels against the stone accompanying them as she found herself, finally, in a much smaller cave.
She let out a shuddering breath at what she saw next.
On every surface, she found carvings in the stone, pictures and symbols she didn’t understand. Her eyes narrowed as she studied each dip and groove, wondering how such could come to be? To her knowledge, her ancestors, those first Targaryens that had escaped the Doom of Valyria, had been the first to step upon these shores, but there was no language to be found that she could discern.
Only pictures, crude and unrefined, and an odd sort of wonder took her, as she studied each small scene in turn.
“The Children of the Forest made these,” he uttered, his eyes trained on the images as well.
She raised her brows, trying to keep her attention focused on what was before her, not his presence at her side.
“When?,” she asked, turning and letting the torchlight illuminate each etching, determined not to lose herself in the much more intriguing sight of him. No man had a right to be so beautiful in firelight.
“A very long time ago,” he murmured, and she examined yet more of the odd swirls and circles as she considered his words.
“They were right here.” She knew little of the beings he spoke of, only what she had read in dusty tomes, save that they were acquainted with the Old Gods of the First Men, from which the Northmen had descended. “Standing where we’re standing. Before there were Targaryens, or Starks, or Lannisters.” She could feel his gaze upon her, but she dug deep, the well of strength she had always found within enough to keep her eyes away from his form. “Maybe even before there were men.”
“No,” he said gruffly, and she was compelled to meet his eyes, that tiny thrill that accompanied the sight of him, one she ignored as their gazes locked.
She tilted her head, questioningly, but he said nothing, instead turning and walking away, leaving her with little choice but to follow him into the shroud of darkness that lay before the flickering circle of light the torch cast. He seemed to know what he was seeking, and stopped abruptly, something serious in that stoic face of his as he peered over to regard her solemnly.
“They were here together,” he intoned, his voice sounding so near she fancied it was tickling against her ear as he spoke, her eyes widening at these new renderings, “The Children and the First Men.” He spoke truly, perhaps, for there was no mistaking the distinct outlines that looked very much like human figures, scattered amongst the more obscure patterns and shapes.
“Doing what?” Her question hung in the air, and her eyes tried to make sense of what she was seeing, a dread building in the pit of her stomach. “Fighting each other?”
The air seemed to grow heavier, her skin prickling at the stare she could feel, and she swung her head to the side to find him watching her closely. She wished she could trust her heart, when it came to him, but it was a creature that was easily fooled, and hopelessly enamored with a version of him that did not exist.
This, she told herself, over and over. The man in her dreams, the man who had been her husband, her King, did not exist. She must accept the man before her as he was, and no more.
If only he did not look at her with something that so closely resembled longing. Because she had seen this look upon his face, even if only in her own mind. His eyes had been greedy for her, yes, his lips as well.
She wondered if he felt this. Because for all that she could deny what she had dreamt, she could not ignore this pull towards him, as though her body needed to be closer to his, in the same manner in which her lungs needed air.
She thought he might.
Then he reached out, and touched her elbow, guiding her gently towards something yet unseen, and she was awash in a wave of desire so strong it made her knees begin to buckle. How could he do this to her? He was little more than a stranger, and yet, his touch felt intimate, familiar in a way she had recently become accustomed with. How could it feel the same?
She was imagining things, yes, that must be it. All those things her heart clearly desired, a home, a family, love; She was transferring them to the one whose face she had seen most clearly. The faces of her children, her sweet little darlings, they were quickly fading during her waking hours, but Jon Snow’s face remained clear, down to the small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the sprinkling of silver that had been found in the raven black of his hair.
But all these thoughts, these lovely, ill-fated thoughts, were quickly chased away by what Jon Snow showed her next. Yet more carvings adorned the walls, but these were no merry, mysterious markings.
Figures had been etched, but while they bore the shape of men they were awful in their rendering, with eyes of cold blue and bodies that, to her fevered mind, seemed hewn from ice.
In her mind, in the lingering recollection that still existed, she knew what it was, what these beings were. You have fought this war , her heart whispered, you have won this war. For him. With him.
“They fought together, against their common enemy,” came the rough voice beside her. “Despite their differences, despite their suspicions.” What she saw, with her very own eyes, made her shiver with fear, but she did her best to disguise it, did not think it wise for him to know how shaken she was. “Together.” His words seemed to resonate around the cave, his stare so heavy with portent that she felt claustrophobic, suddenly, as though the walls were pressing in on her. “We need to do the same if we’re going to survive. Because the enemy is real. It’s always been real.”
It was almost too much, his presence, his words, these strange and terrible carvings. She did not want to believe this. For the first time since she’d awoken to a knot on her head and a broken, shattered heart, she wished desperately for it all to be a lie, all the things she had seen and felt. Because in that dreaming vision she had seen what this war would cost her.
Viserion.
And probably more.
Her heart clenched. Could she afford to give him even the barest sliver of belief? When she herself struggled to discern what was real and what was not? Was just the promise of what might be enough to cast aside her own ambitions and throw her lot in with this openly rebellious, stubborn King?
She just couldn’t be sure.
And no matter what she yearned for, she had not come this far to toss it all aside for a comely face and earnest spirit. It would be selfish to believe otherwise.
She pushed aside all but the most rational and reasonable of responses. He still offered her little in return for his requests, but perhaps now that they were alone, together, he might be more inclined to a more equitable exchange. She could see it on his face, the desperation, the ill-concealed hope, that she would promise her aid. But surely he would understand that to ask such of her meant he must be willing to offer something in return.
“And you say you can’t defeat them without my armies and my dragons?” It seemed wise to remind him exactly what he was asking of her, the enormity of his request. She had assembled the largest standing armies in Westeros, more than enough to take the Iron Throne, even without her dragons. But he wanted them as well, wanted all she had to give.
He seemed humbled at her wording, ducking his head, his dark eyes glittering, softened with understanding as he answered, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think I can.”
She took one step, then another, watching how, finally, he seemed shaken by her presence, by the sight of her advancing on him. Not afraid, she realized, but rather that he was bracing himself for her nearness. Inwardly, she wanted to smile at the notion, but this was not the appropriate time for such soft fondness, especially since the man before her had not yet earned it.
But it pleased her, all the same, that he seemed as affected by her as she was by him.
“I will fight for you.” She waited, saw the flicker of relief that flashed across his features. “I will fight for the North.” Her words lingered, echoing slightly around the cave, his eyes warming as he gazed at her. But she was not finished. “When you bend the knee.”
He could not ask for the things he did without a concession in return. She could not allow it. She simply couldn’t. And she could not understand why this was so difficult for him to comprehend.
His face fell, and her stomach twisted at the sight, foolishly. She had expected the haughtiness of their first meeting, the hard gaze, the tight voice, but instead she thought she only saw a morose regret. He glanced down, then back at her, as though he were searching for the best way to explain himself. “My people,” he began, “They won’t accept a Southron ruler. Not after everything they’ve suffered.”
She wondered, curiously, just what sort of hold he truly had on the North. For it seemed to her that instead of following his edicts, the Northerners were more inclined to give them to their King. Was it the status of his birth, that made him so fearful of giving up the apparently limited power he had been given?
She stepped closer still. “They will,” she said softly, her eyes begging him to see reason, “If their King does.” This was the greatest incongruence with Jon Snow, she thought. For while he had boldly declared himself not bound by her rule, now he seemed repentant, as though he might well bend the knee, but he had no choice in the matter. He did not seem to understand that the choice resided solely within him, and his people would be bound to obey. “They chose you to lead them. They chose you to protect them.” She could not resist testing him, goading him to see if perhaps it was truly a matter of his own ego, after all. She raised a brow. “Isn’t their survival more important than your pride?”
If he had seemed shaken, before, now he seemed completely flummoxed, his eyes flaring and widening as he stared at her. His lips parted, a harsh breath escaping, but he was cut short by a call from Missandei, one that took them both by surprise.
She said nothing else, as they made their way back along the path they had travelled, and neither did he. It might be best, she thought, as she snuck several quick glances at him, trying not to acknowledge the way she might grow used to him at her side, to let him stew in what she’d said. They could speak on it later.
They walked out onto the beach, and as she saw her stone-faced advisors awaiting them, her dread was reawakened, for whatever these tidings were, they were certainly not good.
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The greatest trial for a Queen, she mused, as she paced around the Painted Table, the sun just dipping below the horizon, was never being certain who she could trust.
Of Missandei, there was no question. Nor for her Dothraki or Unsullied. The ties that bound them were of a different nature than those who surrounded her now, who offered her advice and guidance and hid their true intentions. The Westerosi amongst her host were the ones she must view with suspicion.
Varys had his little birds and his web of whispers, and Tyrion had his ‘clever’, though consistently flawed plans, and Jon Snow….
Well, for the King in the North, there seemed to be little but blunt honesty. It was refreshing, she supposed, running her thumb around the lip of her glass and gazing into the amber wine, but still there could be motives at play that she could not quite grasp, yet.
Where Tyrion was concerned there were clear conflicts of interest, and it was enough to give her pause. He would regain her confidence when he constructed a plan that actually worked. She felt thorny and bitter, her thoughts straying to her lost allies.
She couldn’t help but feel as though every move she made just led to more failure, and more disappointment.
Movement from the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she looked up to find Missandei entering with a covered platter. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she had missed the evening meal, too lost in her own failed objectives to feed herself.
“You need to eat, Your Grace,” her friend said, placing the tray on a side table and then approaching, cautiously. “It will do you no good to starve yourself.” Daenerys halted her pacing when Missandei’s gentle hand lit upon her shoulder. “Please.”
With a tight smile, Daenerys nodded, and kissed her teeth. “I know.” She heaved a sigh as she crossed to the food, pulling the linen that covered it aside and picking up a small chunk of warm bread, toying with the crumbling edge as she tried to clear her mind of this most current round of pressing, world-ending problems. “It is just hard to summon an appetite when those I swore to help are dead. Because of their refusal to serve Cersei, their allegiance to me,” she waved a hand, letting out another breath, shoulders sagging in defeat. “It seems no matter what I do the world works against me.”
Missandei gave her a commiserating look, then poured herself a measure of wine, topping off Daenerys’s goblet as well. She knew, from the way the other woman was worrying her bottom lip, that she was thinking something over, and so she waited, sipping at her Arbor Gold, until Missandei was ready to share her thoughts.
“The King in the North gave you good counsel today, I think.” With a tip of her head, Missandei offered a small half-smile. “How was your private audience?” There was no mistaking the suggestive edge to her friend’s voice, nor the twinkling in her eyes as she waited for an answer.
Dany huffed out a breath. Another defeat. “Not fruitful, I’m afraid. Even at my promise to aid in his fight, he still refuses fealty.” She shook her head. “Am I being unwise, in asking for something in return? I cannot see how I should be expected to promise the world in exchange for nothing.”
Missandei shook her head forcefully. “Of course not.” With a swallow of wine, her face took a more considering set. “Perhaps it is just that he does not trust you yet. The day they arrived,” she continued, seating herself and tucking her legs up under her skirts, “I heard Tyrion tell him that Starks who go South do not fare well.” She shrugged, amber eyes straying to the fire as Daenerys pondered her words. “It could be that he is just wary, in general.”
Taking a bite of the bread, Daenerys took her time chewing and swallowing, wishing that for once things could be uncomplicated, but accepting that even where Jon Snow was concerned, that was not to be. “He says his people will never accept a Southron ruler.”
She was so tired of war, in truth. The prospect of finally reclaiming the Iron Throne, and bringing Westeros back under Targaryen rule, only to have to wage war against one of her kingdoms, did not appeal to her.
Missandei narrowed her eyes, and sipped at her wine thoughtfully. “Let him know you better. Let him see you for what you are, as we do. Those of us who follow you.” She clucked her tongue and gave Daenerys a skeptical side-eye. “It’s certainly not because of your name, because you are the daughter of some long-dead King we never knew.”
It irked at her, this notion that she must win him over to gain his fealty. All the same was the struggle within her, this tug-of-war between the things she had seen and what was truly before her. Because heart and mind, in this and many other things, of late, could not quite agree.
She thought of him, standing tall in the throne room of Dragonstone, a crown of bronze and iron tucked against his dark hair, the proud cast to his eyes as he had looked at his children, at her. She let her mind linger on the banner that was set upon the wall, their mingled sigils fitted so perfectly together. How regal he had looked, his sword strapped about his waist, his--
Her eyes grew wide, as she realized that, since she had awakened, she had not seen Jon Snow’s sword. “Missandei, you were there, on the shore, when the Northerners arrived, yes?”
Missandei squinted at her. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “I was. Why?”
Dany’s mind began to race. That meant she should have no inkling as to what the King in the North’s sword looked like. But in her mind’s eye she could see it, Valyrian steel, highly prized, the pommel carved in ivory, in the shape of a wolf’s head.
And not just any wolf.
In her twisted, hazy memory, Jon Snow had been in possession of a Direwolf, an albino, named Ghost, with eyes of ruby red and the softest fur she’d ever felt sliding through her fingertips.
If she wanted Jon Snow to trust her, then it might well be that the way to open the door to such had just occurred to her. Or she was making an enormous mistake. She seemed to be making several of those, as of late, so there was no true way to know.
“And their weapons were seized, correct?” She waited breathlessly for the answer, a nervous excitement fluttering through her at Missandei’s puzzled nod. Her stomach growled in hunger as she allowed herself a grin in the other women’s direction.
“Would you find where the King in the North’s sword is being held, please? And have it brought to me?”
Missandei’s brows climbed her forehead, and she saw her tongue run across her teeth, beneath tight lips. “If that is your wish.” As though she couldn’t help herself, more words came tumbling out. “Do you mean to return it to him?”
Daenerys wasn’t sure, precisely. All she knew, in the moment, was that she needed to see it, the desire to do so burning a blazing path through his veins. Because it may well be that it looked nothing like she thought, but if it did…
If it did, well, that would certainly be very interesting.
She bit at her lip for a moment, then released it. “We shall see. For now I would like to look upon it.”
Missandei stood, and smoothed out her skirts, her head dipping in a nod. “I will see it done.”
She was gone, quick as that, and Daenerys forced what food she could down her throat, small bites she chased with wine, until half the meal was gone and she felt a pleasant, warm buzz flooding through her.
Missandei returned, accompanied by Qhono, who bore an object wrapped in oilcloth, held before him. She cautioned herself not to get her hopes up, that the odds were very much against this being the blade she so clearly recalled in her mind. What would a bastard-born son, sworn to the Night’s Watch, be doing with a Valyrian steel blade? It was silly, as she thought upon it, and she let out a chuckle at her own frivolous thoughts as she took it from him. She dismissed him, but not Missandei, and once the Dothraki man was gone she walked to the Painted Table, rounding the sides until she stood before the depiction of the North, and set the weapon on the surface.
Her stomach twisted sickly, and she found herself regretting the wine, her hands flexing as she held them above the thick cloth that hid the blade from view. A glance at her side showed Missandei regarding her with a watchful eye, no doubt curious as to why such a simple thing should give her such pause.
“I am afraid it will be the same, as what I saw,” Daenerys said quietly, her hands creeping down to grab the edge of the oilcloth. “And I am afraid it will not be.”
Understanding flickered in Missandei’s eyes, and she reached forward as well. “Shall I do it then?”
Dany shook her head negatively. “No, that’s quite alright. I’m just being ridiculous.” With a sharp exhale she tensed her jaw, preparing herself to see a blade that would be quite foreign to her. She was sure of it.
But then she pulled apart the cloth, and revealed the blade within, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move even if she wished to.
“Longclaw,” she whispered. Dimly, she reckoned Jon must have told her the name of it, in this dream that was perhaps not a dream at all, because she was certain that was the name of this sword. She had seen it, this very blade, leaned against the wall beside her bed, when he’d rid himself of all his coverings to twine his body against hers. She swallowed hard, her pulse pounding in her ears, and set her trembling fingertips along the pommel. “Ghost,” she breathed out and reverently traced the shape of the wolf’s head.
Real, real, it was real, her heart cried loudly.
Just a coincidence , roared her mind, but the sight of this sword, laid on the table before her, made her unsteady on her feet.
She couldn’t have known this, but she did, and she could not say, in the moment, what that meant.
Missandei looked on, confused, waiting. Over the lump that had risen in her throat, Daenerys managed the best explanation she could muster. “It’s the same. This sword, his sword...I know this blade, I have seen it.” Reaching up, she rubbed at her temples, glad, at least, that the swelling had subsided, her head beginning to pound as her mind began to race. “But all the same, I know I have never actually seen it in all my days. I do not know that I can make sense of this.”
Was this enough? To prove that it was less a dream and more a vision? A portent of things to come?
She wanted to laugh, she wanted to weep. She wanted to run to him, as deeply as she wanted to hide herself away from the implications this might hold.
“It could be a mere coincidence, Missandei. Perhaps someone has mentioned the blade in passing, and my mind has merely filled in the details accurately.” Her eyes began to burn as she recalled his sweet smile, the one he seemed to save for her and her alone, the way he laughed at the little silver-haired girls she had borne him, the way he cuffed his hand gently against his son’s dark hair.
“Perhaps,” Missandei echoed, but she did not seem convinced.
Daenerys let out a humorless, quiet laugh. “Don’t encourage this madness, I beg you,” she pleaded, but still she couldn’t quite contain her smile.
Together, they stared down at the blade for several long moments, and in that quiet stillness Daenerys decided on a course of action. It was unwise, some might say, but if it was true that Jon Snow’s wariness was borne out of a general sense of impending doom, and not necessarily trained towards her, then it might be the correct path to take.
Or he would run her through and unleash her angry sons on the entirety of the continent, in which case she supposed his problems would be solved as well, though not exactly in the way he might have hoped.
She cleared her throat gently, then took Missandei’s hand in hers. “Will you ask the King in the North to join me here? I would speak with him tonight, before I change my mind.”
Her amber eyes widened, but Missandei’s lips formed a small grin all the same. “Shall I keep the guards outside the doors, after he arrives? Perhaps you might need some privacy for the diplomacy you have planned.” A playful nudge came, at her shoulder, and she rolled her eyes at the innuendo.
“Let them stay,” The Queen said. “I have no need for that much privacy this night.” A small, tiny part of her might wish otherwise, but even this discovery had not pushed her over into complete lunacy.
She was fairly certain that stripping the King in the North bare and coercing him into her bed, at this point, would be an exercise in futility, and perhaps something he expected of her. No doubt he had heard the same slurs against her as she had; ‘Foreign whore’ in particular made her laugh, especially here, in her ancestral home, where she had been birthed.
She must take care, and proceed with caution, no matter what she secretly desired.
Missandei gave her a cheeky wink and left once more, and Daenerys carefully swaddled the weapon once more, before pouring more wine. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she might need it, to make it through another private audience with the comely, but aloof, Jon Snow.
----------
The crackling fire in the hearth kept her company as she waited, the rolled scroll at her wrist comforting her, but only just barely. She had thought herself on the edge of exhaustion earlier, but now, she was on high alert, replaying the conversations that she could recall, trying to suss out the small nuggets of information to be found, if they were more than just mere projection and fantasy, induced by a sharp blow to the head.
A knock sounded, and she rose from the stuff chair before the fire, only managing a few steps before he appeared.
Jon Snow did not look pleased. In fact, he looked guarded, and wary, especially once he realized they were alone in her council room.
“Your Grace?” His voice was low and rough, and she wondered if she had disturbed him from his bed, a notion that she dared not linger on, lest she make a fool of herself.
She set her goblet aside and approached him, smiling politely, coming close but not too close, of course. She had already decided, quite firmly, to proceed with civil, diplomatic decorum. “My apologies,” she said, watching his every expression, “If I disturbed you from your rest.”
He seemed to relax, in increments. “No bother,” he replied easily, rocking back on his heels. “I had not yet retired for the evening.” His gaze flicked down to her feet, then back up, something unsure settling across his face. “I think I am the one who owes an apology, Your Grace.”
“Daenerys,” she corrected, smiling more widely when he seemed surprised. “If you please. Or, I suppose we can just refer to each other as ‘Your Grace’ incessantly.” She shrugged lightly, secretly delighted at the way his face wrinkled with distaste at the prospect.
“I see your point,” he paused, licking his lips quickly as though they were dry, her eyes helplessly drawn to the motion, “Daenerys.”
The heat that flooded her was instant and, in many ways, most unwelcome. Feeling flustered, she withdrew, coming to stand at the head of the table after fetching her wine. With some distance between them she regained her composure, and did not shy away from his curious eyes. “Tell me, Jon, why you feel you must apologize.”
He started, just slightly, at her use of his name, and scratched at his jaw before answering. “Well,” he drawled, “ l fear I might have spoken out of turn, telling you what you ought to do just after I refused, again, to bend the knee.”
She arched a brow, raising her goblet to her lips to hide her wry smile. “I asked, and you answered. Why should you apologize for that? Did you give me your most honest answer?”
His eyes were a peculiar shade of gray, she thought, the dimness of the room rendering them almost black, as only a few braziers were lit.
“Aye,” he said, in a manner that almost seemed bashful. It seemed to Daenerys that this man couldn’t quite make up his mind on just what he was. He seemed to struggle in trying to reconcile being a bastard and a King.
It was endearing, on him, in a way she couldn’t quite explain.
“Then I thank you for your counsel. I have found honesty to be a rare and valuable commodity in Westeros.” The knowing, resigned understanding on his face caused an unfamiliar eagerness to dance through her. She nodded towards the bundle on the table, and met his eyes again. “Along that vein, I asked you here to give you something.”
He stepped closer, no doubt wondering at the wrapped object on the table, and perhaps, at the way his sword hand flexed by his side, he sorted out exactly what it was.
“I would like for us to trust each other. And while I had foolishly hoped that supplying you with the dragon glass you requested might show you that I am willing to compromise, that I am not the monster some would have me be, it clearly was not enough to convince you.” He wanted to disagree with her, she could tell. His face grew taut, his teeth clenched together, as he took in her words and looked up from the table top.
She held up a hand, to halt whatever words he meant to share, and pressed on, intent on saying what she wished. “You ask for me to trust you, Jon, to believe that the threat you tell me of is real, to swear my armies and dragons to your cause.” She took a long, deep swallow of wine, and left the empty goblet carelessly on the painted surface of the table. “Surely this must extend both ways? If we are to share the field of battle together, should we not learn to trust each other?”
“Of course,” he said, in a voice so pained that it was clear he was troubled. “I think you misunderstand my reticence.” He seemed to be carrying on an argument within himself, his face twisting. “I know I am asking no small thing of you. I know that, I swear.”
She stepped around the table edge, his voice falling so quiet that she feared she would soon not be able to hear. Looking between the Northern King and the bundle in the table, she jerked her chin towards it. “Open it. Consider it a token of my wish to trust you.”
The King in the North complied, but his eyes never left hers, his hands sure of their task. When the steel was exposed he finally looked down, and the look of relieved affection that stole over his face did odd things to her, something fluttering wildly behind her breastbone as she watched him stroke a finger lovingly across the pommel.
“That is your sword, is it not?”
He nodded, a new warmth visible as he pinned her with a sharp, decisive look. “Aye, it is.” She didn’t know quite what to make of the determined air that settled upon him, and she merely watched as he strapped the sword around his waist.
But as she gazed at him, she noticed it, that hint of the man she’d only caught the merest glimpses of, ‘til now. And though the years had not yet touched him, as they had in her mind, here he was. She wondered if the lack of his weapon had made him feel as vulnerable and exposed as she had felt when she’d had no choice but to lock away two of her sons, with Drogon nowhere to be found. They were her strength, her greatest weapons, and the absence of them and the protection they provided had left her prickly and always on edge.
It was not just a trick her eyes, or her heart, she realized, seeing his chest expand and contract with a satisfied sigh, noting the way he stood a little straighter, his chin held just a bit higher.
A King, she told herself, then forced her eyes to the wall. She spared no look back at him, as the room fell quiet, save for the swishing sound of her woolen coat as she walked to refill her wine.
But she could feel his eyes on her, that hot, heavy stare that part of her craved, and when she checked her gaze back over her shoulder he quickly looked away.
Daenerys smiled, and filled her own glass, then one for him as well, turning and holding it towards him as she tried to school her expression into something a bit less amused. “Would you join me? If the hour is not too late, of course. We were interrupted earlier, and as you say that I misunderstand your reticence, I think I should like to hear your thoughts on the matter of your continued reluctance in bending the knee.”
Jon Snow seemed to pause, just a brief moment of hesitation, before he nodded, a small smile playing about his lips as he came to where she stood and plucked the proffered drink from her hand. She gestured to the chair nearest him, seating herself in the other, willing other, more sordid memories of sitting with him before a roaring fire from her mind as they exchanged short, glancing looks before settling back into their seats.
He took a cautious sip, and she couldn’t help but laugh. “Do you fear I meant to poison you?”
At her question, he swallowed, giving her a horrified look. “No,” he said hurriedly, “Nothing like that. You poured yours from the same jug, after all.” He gazed down into the liquid, then back at her. “What is this?”
“Wine,” she supplied, and when he frowned slightly she clarified further. “Arbor Gold to be precise.” A pang of grief, muddled with guilt, struck her, and she looked away, towards the fire. “A gift from a dead ally.” Olenna deserved better than the death she received. She had not fooled herself for a moment that the old Queen of Thorns had sought her out because she believed in Daenerys’s cause. It was vengeance she was after, pure and simple, but in that base desire they had shared a common purpose: putting an end to Cersei’s reign of terror.
So much blood spilled, already, and Dany did not doubt there would be more, still.
Jon was quiet, beside her, and when she dared peek his way he was looking straight at her, a melancholy understanding in his eyes. “My apologies. For your losses, I mean. It seems allies are increasingly hard to come by.” He took another swallow, and his lips ticked upwards. “Good wine, for what it’s worth. I don’t generally care for it.”
Daenerys chuckled and raised her cup towards him in mock salute. “Well, if I come across Olenna Tyrell’s ghost I shall be sure to pass on the compliment.” She sighed and leaned an elbow on the armrest of her chair, angling herself slightly more towards him. “Tell me, Jon, why would your people refuse the fealty I ask of you?” She quirked a brow at him, ruefully. “After all, by your own admission you ask for much from me, but offer little in return. Do your people believe in receiving something for nothing?”
Now it was Jon’s turn to sigh, and study the contents of his goblet for several long minutes. She took the opportunity to study his profile. It was much the same as the vision of him held tight in her heart, but she had to keep herself in check, continuing to remind herself that, sword or no, she had little real evidence to prove that what she saw could really come to pass. She couldn’t let herself get swept away in the current of what they might be.
“Northerners are stubborn, Daenerys. I think perhaps we’re born that way, every last one of us. And it might be that we have no choice. The North is a hard place. Survival does not come easy. In the North, even in summer, there are snows. We grow no crops. We have but the Ironwood trees grown throughout and warriors to offer the other Kingdoms by way of trade.” He shook his head slightly, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice. “And I fear they are a people quite set in their ways.”
She considered his words carefully, tried to place them against the backdrop of all she had been told before arriving on these shores. Slowly, she rolled her eyes up to catch and hold his. “And when you say they will serve no Southron Queen, is this because of Cersei?” She tipped her head to the side, regarding him with gentle scrutiny. “Or because of me?”
His jaw worked, and when he spoke, it was as though he had to force the words out. “A bit of both, I suppose.” He was scowling, now, but it seemed more in regard to what he was telling her. “They have been drawn into so many wars, for so long, that for some they simply tire of the fighting. They want to be left alone, to live their lives, without the constant threats in the South.”
Daenerys took another sip, letting the sweet wine linger on her tongue. “Understandable. And the others?”
He seemed almost sullen when he answered. “The others,” he said crossly, “seem determined to hold tight to the past, no matter the cost, to bear old grudges where there is no need.”
She sucked in a breath, her shoulders slumping a bit, and looked back to the dancing flames. It was as she suspected then. Perhaps the King in the North might be willing to allow that she was not her father, but his people seemed less inclined. “Your grandfather, and uncle, I presume? They hold these deeds against me? Simply because of my name?”
He jerked his head in a halting nod. “And my aunt, I fear. There are those among them who fought in the war to overthrow your father, who rode to answer the call because of what your brother did to her.”
She spluttered up another swallow of wine, both at the insinuation against Rhaegar and the mention of Lyanna Stark. She could almost hear him, whispering in her mind, telling her a fantastical story of love, and loss, and a babe hidden away so that he might live.
But she certainly had no reason to believe that was true. With a steadying breath, she gripped the stem of her goblet a bit tighter, and asked a more prudent question. “What do they believe he did to her, Jon?”
His brow furrowed, and he seemed surprised, his mouth falling open at her question. “You don’t know?”
She ran her tongue along her teeth quickly, letting a stream of air escape her nostrils. “I know what I was told by Ser Barristan Selmy, and others. And, in their opinion, he was a good man. He would’ve been a good King.” She remembered Ser Jorah’s words, then, gave voice to them, in turn. “Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands died for it.”
Jon Snow hung his head, the hand not clenched around his cup rising so he could pinch at the bridge of his nose. It was yet another move she had seen before, she thought, and yet never at all. His words cut her to the quick when he finally spoke. “In Westeros it is said that Rhaegar kidnapped my aunt, and raped her as well.”
Her head was shaking in adamant refusal before he had finished. “No,” she said, vehemently. “No, that cannot be true.” He said nothing either way, just stared at her with that sad, miserable expression that seemed to be a hallmark of his. She drained the last of her wine, irritated, confused. But more than anything, she felt deeply dismayed by the whole of it. “And so I am to be cast in with this wickedness as well? I am of House Targaryen, and so I must be rebuked? I am not to be trusted?” She rose and stalked to the sideboard, the vague idea that she ought to pace herself, but she cast it aside swiftly.
She whirled, then, to find him eyeing her as though she were a wounded animal. It only seemed to make her burn hotter. “And do you agree? Do you share your peoples’ opinion of me? Is this why you refuse to swear your fealty?” Scalding, angry tears were rising, to her mortification, and she turned her head to the side, willed herself not to let him see.
She barely heard his quiet approach, didn’t sense his nearness until his tentative hand came to rest on her forearm. She couldn’t help but meet his eyes, then, though she feared what she would find.
“No,” he said simply, quietly. “I don’t think that at all. If I did, I wouldn’t have come.”
He squeezed, just barely, the pressure enough to cause her heart to pound even as her frustration ebbed.
“You wish to know why I will not do what I know I should? I know your assistance comes with a cost, and if I did not bear the burden of this title I would bend the knee here and now.” The urgency in his voice, the heated delivery, stole the words from her throat, and so she just nodded.
Jon ground his teeth together for a moment, then hastily reached across her for the wine, refilling his cup then hers and stalking back to his chair, his eyes expectant as they bounced between Daenerys and her unoccupied seat.
Once she was settled across from him he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and bringing his hands together, resting his chin atop them as he studied her.
“You say we must trust each other. And you have returned my sword, for which I am grateful.” She nodded at his terse words, wondering at the trepidation in his tone. He rubbed a hand along his jaw, seemed tired, and leaned back, his eyes resting in the hearth before them. “What I tell you now I share in the strictest of confidence, then, Daenerys. For there can be no trust without truth, and this is what I know to be true.”
She held her breath, the silence almost deafening, but finally, in a voice rough, and low, and laden with a certain heaviness, he continued. “My hold on the North is tenuous, at best, I think.”
It wasn’t at all what she expected, and she narrowed her eyes, taking a slower, smaller sip as she listened intently, intrigued. “How so?”
His jaw flexed, no doubt his teeth grinding together with his own private frustrations. “There is no doubt they bent the knee, named me King in the North, beat their swords upon the floor and swore their allegiance to House Stark, but,” his tongue clucked lightly, his breath hissing out, “I am not a Stark. My sister Sansa is the last of the trueborn Starks, and I cannot help but wonder how long I have until my people turn against me in favor of her.”
A new concern bloomed in her chest, concern for him, for what might befall him if what he said was true, if he knelt to her only to be usurped by his own people, once he returned to the North. Would they kill him? She knew little of Sansa, and now that she thought on it, she could not recall the name of the current Lady Stark reaching her ears even once in her fevered imaginings.
Only Arya, the dark-haired woman who favored Jon so, could be conjured forth, and Jon had said nothing of her at all. If Sansa was the ‘last of the trueborn Starks’ as Jon had said, did that mean that Arya no longer lived?
Before she could ask, he spoke again, this time with more force, more power, in his rumbling Northern burr.
“Do you see the problem here, Daenerys? I know you probably don’t believe me, about what is coming for all of us, and I daresay I can’t blame you. I have offered you little in the way of real, tangible proof, just my word and a few scrawlings on a cavern wall.” He leaned closer, eyes iron gray and glittering with reflected light. “But I am doing everything I can to hold my Kingdom together. I cannot lead them in this fight if they are divided amongst themselves.” He bowed his head, resting his forehead on his knuckles briefly, something wild and helpless on his face when he looked back to her. “I don’t even think they believe me, to be honest with you.”
Daenerys did not know how to respond to that. She did not know how to reply in a way that would lessen the distress that was clear in the tense set of his face, the stiff way he held himself in his seat, as though he were supremely uncomfortable with the entire situation.
“You fear that if you bend the knee they will overthrow you. And then, when it is time to face this Army of the Dead, this Night King you speak of--”
He let out a ragged exhale and resumed his study of the wine in his cup. “All is lost. I cannot lead a man who refuses to follow me, Daenerys. I cannot help but get the distinct impression that I am one wrong move away from a knife in the back.”
She didn’t mean to do it, not really. She didn’t mean to reach across the distance between them, to slip her fingers across the top of his palm, but the urge to comfort him was too strong. Perhaps she was just a fool, a silly mooning fool who didn’t know the difference between fantasy and reality, but he was here and solid and so unbearably sad, and she strongly suspected that even if she’d thought to stop herself, she wouldn’t have managed it.
“Do you truly believe your sister would allow it?” She meant the question to reassure him, couldn’t imagine that Sansa Stark would rather see her brother dead than in power. Tyrion had relayed a few tales of the girl, a maid who was by all accounts a proper lady, who had suffered, yes, but had finally regained her home and what family remained. Surely that meant something.
But Jon only seemed further troubled, and the despondent way he shrugged made the tears she’d pushed aside resurface. She kept them at bay, but only barely, when he whispered, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
This was a problem, then. One she would have to deal with, and tread most carefully while she did so. She could not imagine holding the manner of this man’s birth against him, but that didn’t seem to be the case for his people. They’d named him King but seemed inclined to a conditional sort of fealty, even for one of their own.
But there were other ways to bind the North to the rest of Westeros, and a devious, cunning, wonderful idea flitted through her mind. Tyrion had planted the seed, while they had still been across the Narrow Sea, and perhaps it was that she had dreamt, what she had seen, had served to strengthen it.
Here and now, though, it was the very real notion that Jon Snow was exactly as he seemed, a man who was blunt, and honest, and trying desperately to do what he thought was right. In her heart, she did believe his tale of White Walkers and undead Armies, even as her mind scolded her for indulging in such nonsense.
Because, ultimately, he did not seem the sort of man to have come as far as he had, with things as dire in his own Kingdom as they sounded, if he didn’t truly need her help.
And there was a way, a way to solidify his hold on the North, a way to give her the last of the Kingdoms she sought, that would require no bended knees at all. But the way he seemed completely flabbergasted by her touch upon his hand, the way his breath caught as he stared where her flesh met his, the way his dark eyes looked hopelessly raw and vulnerable, suggested that this might not be the right time to mention it.
She offered a weak smile, instead, and withdrew her hand, instantly missing the warmth of his skin. “Let us think on it, then, Jon, and perhaps we can come up with a suitable compromise.” Her head was beginning to swim, either from the wine, or his nearness, or the mix of the two, and she stood quickly, withdrawing to the hearth. “In the meantime, I must bid you goodnight. I have much to plan, if you will excuse me.”
The King in the North nodded, and neatly set his goblet aside on the nearby table, sparing her a lingering, unreadable look as he paused by the door. “Sleep well, Your Grace.” He winced, then corrected himself, just before she could. “Daenerys,” he said, in a manner that made her want to close her eyes and imagine him pressed against her.
But then she caught sight of that carved white pommel on the sword strapped to his waist, and she called out to him. “Jon, your sword--”
He turned back, clearly curious. “Yes?”
She came closer, leaving a few feet between them, pointing a slim finger at the direwolf’s head, frozen in a snarl. “The pommel is remarkable. I must ask, did you have it placed on the blade?”
This earned her a real smile, a bright small thing, but there all the same. His eyes grew fond as he caressed a hand across it. “Oh, aye. It’s made to look like my wolf, you see.”
She took a chance, because being wrong in this instance mattered very little. “Ghost?”
Surprise flitted across his face, then understanding. “You’ve been talking to Tyrion again.” He nodded, and chuckled. “I’d have brought him with me, but I fear direwolves and boats don’t mix well.”
With a heavy swallow, she nodded, forcing an answering smile. “He does so enjoy talking.” She tilted her head towards the pommel. “A pity he could not join you. I should think I would have enjoyed seeing such a magical creature in the flesh.”
His smile became a warm grin. “Well, I suppose that’s an even better reason to convince you to travel North, isn’t it?”
She rolled her eyes, but chuffed a gentle laugh. “Sleep well, Jon Snow.”
He turned, and left, and she was alone once more, with her thoughts and the memories that tortured her every waking moment. With trembling fingers, she pulled free the scroll tucked in her sleeve, eyes flying over every line.
Two things, now, had proven to be true. The sword she remembered, with the carved pommel, was indeed Jon Snow’s. And he had a direwolf, pale in color with eyes of ruby red, called Ghost.
She thought back on what he had said, the easy fib she’d replied with, and wondered exactly what she ought to do now.
Because while there existed the possibility that at some point, in passing, Tyrion might have mentioned that Jon Snow possessed a Direwolf, and that it was named Ghost, she knew he had not.
She was certain of it.
Her eyes strayed to the map of Westeros, and to the Reach, where the Lannisters were surely busy looting whatever they could from the stores of her dead ally.
She rolled the scroll hastily and tucked it away. Now was not the time to linger on the subject of Jon Snow anymore, not this night.
She had more pressing concerns. She had an attack to plan, and justice to seek for her betrayed ally.
She could almost picture Olenna sitting there, could hear her advice, still, ringing in her ears.
‘Are you a sheep? No. You are a dragon. BE a dragon.’
Eyeing the route between Highgarden and King's Landing, she decided that was precisely what she would do.